


Deep Fried Disasters

by Grace_d



Series: Short Stories for Small Spiders [7]
Category: Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Carnivals, Drabble, Fluff, Gen, Post-Spider-Man: Far From Home, or pre - Freeform, spider sized appetite
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-24 17:07:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21881494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Grace_d/pseuds/Grace_d
Summary: This was a little drabble response for starcrosslane for the prompt "Here, you can have mine" previously posted on my tumblr!❤❤❤
Relationships: Happy Hogan & Peter Parker, Happy Hogan/May Parker (Spider-Man), May Parker (Spider-Man) & Peter Parker
Series: Short Stories for Small Spiders [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1423630
Comments: 17
Kudos: 64





	Deep Fried Disasters

“Peter- Hey- wait. Watch it!“ 

Happy’s hands, and his warnings, come a second too late. 

“Oh,” Peter says, eyes on the upturned box of chips on the ground, “man down.” 

Before Happy can stop him, Peter kneels in the dirt, the crowd barely parting around him, carefully balancing an overloaded tray of festival food as he does. The music thumps over Happy’s sigh, almost unintelligible through the crappy speakers. 

A group screams, and Happy glances over his shoulder, a force of habit, even though the screams are joyful. It’s still important to check. 

He looks down at Peter. 

Oh, this is not on. 

Happy grabs the tray in one hand, and the hoodie attached to the adolescent attempting to scoop the scattered heart attack food with the other hand, and hauls both upright. 

“We do NOT eat off a fairground floor, Peter.” Happy frogmarches him over to the picnic table May has nabbed. 

Her eyes widen. Peter proudly lists off his selection to her, dropping change back into her waiting palm. Hot dogs, corndogs (they’re different things, Happy), pretzels, corn on the cob, pickle chips and deep-fried ice cream. 

“This is why I usually feed him before we leave the house,” she apologises. 

“It’s fine.” Happy replies. 

He sits, knees and back protesting with the origami required to get into the bench. He takes a second to check his perimeter, taking extra care to glare at anyone looking at Peter or May, then turns back to find May tucking daintily into some corn on a cob. 

Happy pulls over his own prize, authentic southern fried pickle chips with ranch dressing. His cardiologist will not be hearing about this, even if he eats nothing but lentils for the rest of the week to make up for it. May pats his hand indulgently. 

The rides whirl on, people laugh and the sun starts to dip down, bringing a sea-salt breeze that mingles with the butter and the soft orange glow of the end of a day. 

Peter hasn’t started eating yet. He’s gazing at the pile of self-prescribed oily death, his eyebrows turning down into a slope that matches his sagging shoulders. He glances longingly at Happy’s plate, then back at his own. Peter’s own pickle chips are carnival detritus by now, trodden deep down into the dirt. 

Happy sighs, remembering how excited Peter had sounded to try the dish Happy lived off the summer after he graduated high school, spinning lights and heaving crowds in the sticky July heat. (You worked at a fair Happy? Does that make you a Carnie?) 

“Here, you can have mine.” Happy casually slides his chips across the table. 

“I’m a pickle, Chip!” Peter whoops, and tips the ranch dressing all over the pile of battered pickles. 

The dressing to batter ration is ruined. But Peter begs for another story about petting zoo disasters and May’s sneaker nudges Happy gently in the shin. Her nose scrunches in that way he adores. 

Happy snags one solitary, unsoaked chip for himself from the edge of the plate. 

It tastes like summer sunsets.


End file.
